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Newsgroups: rec.motorcycles
Subject: takin' the red head for a ride....
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From: cassidy@elan.rowan.edu (Kyle Cassidy)
Date: Mon, 28 Mar 1994 18:57:45 GMT
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Organization: Rowan College of New Jersey
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last week it started to warm up around here in n.j. so i crept outside to
see about maybe riding down to parvin state park, or maybe philadelphia. who
do i see outside but the love of my life, fire of my loins, the red head who
lives next door. she is sitting glumly in her car.
"hi!" she says when she sees me.
"gluxpurt!" i choke.
"my car won't start." she frowns. i want to say something but there'
s this huge lump in my throat and all i can do is make noises like i'm being
strangled. i just nodd.
"hey!" she says, like she's getting an idea, can you take a look at
my car? you motorcyclists must know all about cars."
"sure," i manage to squeek, banging my chest a couple of times. she
gets out of the car and pops the hood. she's wearing this black, er, not
quite a dress, more of a spandex _tube_. i wipe my forhead.
"...ack...warm..." i manage to choke. she doesn't say anything. i
lean over engine of her car, which is some forign thing. under the hood it
looks like a referigerator has been squashed, what the hell are all those
plastic _bottles_? the last (first and only) car i ever had was a 1965 ford
mustang, if you dropped a _watermellon_ in the engine it would fall through.
there wasn't enough free space under her hood to put a paperclip.
"can you tell what's wrong?" she asks.
"uh," i say, pulling on a couple of wires, "your, uh, hard disk
compression ratio is a lot lower than it should be. maybe because you've got
a bunch of execuitables in here. binaries don't compress very well. you've
got to update your stacker drivers i think. uh, it's not gonna move until
you have the baud reset, but unfourtionately, i loaned my, uh, hyper-wrench
to someone. you'll have to take it to a shop."
_wshew!_
"oh," she says, "i was supposed to go to my parents house for
dinner. hey! why don't you give me a ride on your motorcycle! i'd love to go
for a ride! you can meet my parents!"
i made a sound like a ferrit someone has stepped on. i think i might
actually have inhaled my tongue. i nodded, "sure," i finally managed to say.
well, the next half hour is a daze for me -- i remember getting her
suited up but after that -- the next thing i recall is arriving at her
parents house. her father, a frowning barrel chested man, was standing on
the porch chewing on a stick of grass.
"heh." he snorted as we walked up the porch, "your taste in friends
hasn't gotten any better." he spits tobacco juice and goes inside. the red
headed girl goes into the kitchen and starts talking with her mother. i'm
left in the living room with this guy who could crush my motorcycle in his
bicepts.
we don't talk.
after a while he says, "i used to think that bikers were no good
scum sucking weasel fuckers."
i wait for him to say that he's changed his mind, but he doesn't say
anything else.
after about half an hour of this, i hear the sounds of fighting in
the kitchen, the red head and her mother yelling about something. the old
man goes into the kitchen and he starts yelling too. i stare at the walls
and twiddle my keys for a while.
the red head comes stomping out of the kitchen,
"you never had any respect for me!" she says and grabbs her helmet, "
come on, we're leaving."
we go outside, the parents follow us out onto the porch, jabbering
away like a couple of mindless peasants. i'm thinking to myself, "this could
be good. after all, _i_ respect her" i'm envisioning going back to my place,
she breaks down, tells me her life story, we find out that we've been in
love all these years that we haven't known each other ... we jump on the
bike, the red head shouts an obscenity and gives them the finger, i turn the
key in the ignition. nothing happens. i noticed that i had left the light on.
her father had to drive us back in the front seat of his pickup
truck. none of us said a word. when we got back she jumped out of the truck,
ran into her apartment and slammed the door.
"night," her old man says to me, spitting tobacco juice.
"night." i say.